


a lily in a twilight place

by songofthe52hertzwhale



Category: Dalton Academy Series
Genre: M/M, Vampires, probably not gonna be in chronological order, unapologetic bastardization of historical events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofthe52hertzwhale/pseuds/songofthe52hertzwhale
Summary: They're monsters. But at least they have each other.





	1. Unknown Location, Modern Day Europe, 425 C.E.

**Author's Note:**

> CP set me on a dark path, y'all

Logan can feel everything and nothing, all at once. It’s an odd sort of dichotomy, the way his body seems to be burning from the inside, the way he can’t quite feel his limbs. He’s not sure how long he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness, why he no longer feels the hard press of stones beneath him. He’s vaguely aware of something cool pressing against his forehead -- he tries to focus on that, that one single pleasant sensation over all else. There are words, too, soft and in a language Logan doesn’t understand.

Somehow, it reassures him. He lets his eyes drift shut once more, lets the darkness overtake him.

He’s not sure how long he sleeps.

When he comes to again, he feels like a completely different person. The weakness he’s felt ever since he’d started running has waned considerably. He can focus better, blinks up at the stone ceiling above him. He can see the details of every crack in the surface, can count each leg on the insect burrowing inside.

Logan lifts his arms above him, stretches limbs he hasn’t used in who knows how long. His skin is still that odd pale shale, almost translucent in the dim light of the room he’s in.

He pushes himself up, raises himself to a sitting position and turns his head. Nothing around him looks familiar -- it seems he’s in some sort of basement, surrounded by thick stone walls, lit by a thin stream of sunlight from beneath a heavy door. There’s a thin layer of straw on the dirt floor beneath him, just soft enough to lay on comfortably.

He has no idea where he is.

Before the panic can set in, though, the door swings open. A boy -- his age, perhaps a little younger -- steps inside, carefully holding a wooden cup in one hand. He shuts the door firmly behind him before looking up.

The boy looks relieved to see Logan awake. He says something, in that same strange language. Logan eyes him warily as he approaches.

“ _Hic,_ ” he says, kneeling beside Logan, _“Bibo_.”

Logan still doesn’t understand. But then the boy is pressing the cup into his hands, giving him an encouraging nod.

He knows what it is before it touches his lips.

He can smell it, the slightly acrid scent of stale blood. It still makes his nose twitch, his stomach growl. He gulps it down hungrily, licks the rim of the cup clean, chases the last few drops of the drink. The boy watches him drink. He doesn’t look disgusted. Doesn’t look surprised.

Once Logan’s had his fill, he examines the boy more closely.

He’s like him. Logan can tell. His skin is pale, like Logan’s -- not quite translucent, he’d obviously been a shade or two tanner than Logan before. His eyes are an unnatural shade of gold, flecked with dark amber.

The boy says something else. Something that almost sounds comforting, understanding. Logan almost feels like he can trust him.

Almost.

He slides backwards, away from the other boy.

“Who are you?” he asks, “Where am I?”

The boy frowns.

“Who _are_ you?” Logan repeats. The boy makes a noise of frustration, tugs at  the dark curls at the nape of his neck.

He clearly doesn’t understand Logan, just as Logan doesn’t understand him. He looks lost for a moment, glances over at the shut door.

He looks _worried_.

When he turns back to Logan, his jaw is set. He presses a hand to his own chest, and his voice is firm when he speaks.

“ _Julian_ ,” he says, tapping over his heart -- if they even still have hearts, “ _Julian_.”

It’s a name. Logan takes a deep breath, presses his own hand to his chest.

“Logan,” he says, and Julian smiles. His golden eyes sparkle, his red lips curving into a smile. Lips almost, but not quite, plump enough to hide the pointed fangs in his mouth.

“ _Logan_ ,” Julian repeats. He takes the cup from Logan’s hands, presses one cool hand to Logan’s temple, “ _Dormio_.”

He pushes. Julian’s surprisingly strong, manages to maneuver Logan back onto the straw with little effort. Logan doesn’t fight him.

He’s not quite sure why. It feels like that’s all he’s been doing lately. Since he changed.

Fighting.

Fighting back against the man who did this to him, the men who called him a monster. Fighting for survival, fighting to escape.

He’s so tired of fighting.

Julian feels safe, somehow. He’d pulled Logan out of the sunlight, fed him, kept him safe.

Maybe he doesn’t have to fight anymore.


	2. Los Angeles, 2015

They’re beautiful, his boys.

Each more perfect than the last, each with their own unique gifts. It had been Clark, who pulled Julian’s attention first. They’d met half a century ago in New York, at a music festival, where Julian had spent four days surrounded by beautiful people and fascinating drugs. Clark had been young, then, so much younger than Julian, and so endlessly fascinating. He’d taken him home, kept the young vampire in his bed until the thrill wore off.

They’d run into each other again, nearly twenty years later, at a party in West Hollywood. Julian had taken a liking to the city, much to Logan’s dismay, had procured himself a nice home nestled high in the hills. He’d been a little bored, that night, until Clark wandered in flanked by two equally beautiful men.

Sinclair and Raven had been just as much fun as Clark. He’d stayed for far too long, lingered in the home the trio shared until Logan’s growls in his mind grew too loud to ignore.

Corey had joined them in the late nineties — the oldest of the group, though not nearly as old as Julian.

Michael, though, is hardly more than an infant.

He’s not nearly experienced enough to understand the charms of someone as ancient as Julian. It’s fascinating, to see how easily Mikey bends to his will. Julian needs barely crook a finger, and the child of the group falls to his knees in worship.

He has them all, on that visit. Separately. Together. One, two, three, four, five at a time. He lets his powers overtake him, practically _drowns_ the poor boys in his charms.

They don’t stand a chance against him.

Although, Julian muses as Clark hovers over him, he’s not sure any of them even _tried_.

He’s thoroughly enjoying himself, here with his boys. His days are filled with endless pleasure, and he hasn’t had this much fun in quite some time.

Logan lets him have two weeks.

He’s with Mikey, when Logan reaches out. Julian hears the heavy sigh, first, could almost mistake it for one of Mikey’s pretty noises until Logan rings in his mind.

_It’s been long enough, Jules, don’t you think_?

Julian digs his teeth into his lower lip, glancing down at Mikey. He’s far too engrossed in what he’s doing, won’t notice if Julian’s distracted for the next few moments.

_You’ve lingered longer_ , Julian projects, the slightest hint of venom in his voice, _Besides, I’m having fun_.

_What, one wasn’t enough for you anymore? You need five to be satisfied now?_

Julian nearly laughs out loud, _It certainly helps. One gets tired and I just move onto the next_.

_So you don’t need me anymore, is that it?_

_Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart. I always need you_.

He can feel Logan’s anger wane, the jealousy fade. He’s almost pleased, now, his ego sufficiently stroked.

_I could always remind you how satisfied you could be with just one._

_Oh, is that right_?

Logan chuckles lowly, but he’s quiet for a moment. Julian can still feel him there, in his head, quietly waiting.

Mikey’s moving inside him, his bright hair sticking to his sweat-slick skin. He shifts, pushes one of Julian’s knees up to his chest, deepens the angle.

_He’s not bad_ , Logan muses, _Surprisingly rough for someone so quiet. Just the way you like it, isn’t that right?_

“Yes,” Julian breathes out loud, and Mikey smirks above him, “Yes.”

_Deep. Hard. He’ll leave bruises on those delicate little wrists of yours. It’s a good thing we heal so quickly. You know how I hate to see marks._

“Like that?” Mikey pants. The bed trembles beneath them, “You like that?”

_You do. I can tell. I always thought Sawyer was your favorite, but you’re quite fond of this one, aren’t you? You feel like you’ve corrupted him. You get off on it._

Julian whimpers. He can feel himself falling over the edge, half-worries he’ll scream Logan’s name when he comes. It wouldn’t do to hurt Mikey’s feelings like that. He grabs Mikey’s wrist, pulls into he can suck those long fingers into his mouth.

It amuses Logan.

_If that’s what you wanted, baby, you could’ve just brought a second. I’m sure any of them would have been willing_.

Julian moans around Mikey’s fingers, _Fuck you._

_No, Julian, I’ll be the one doing the fucking when you finally come home. Make you forget all about your little California harem_.

He can picture it — the jealous look in Logan’s eyes when he walks in, the way Logan always shoves him roughly against the wall, mouths at his neck until the smell of _other_ fades away. It’s always so exciting, the first night they reunite. How Logan’s focus is so directed on _him_ , on leaving marks on his skin and a soreness between his legs.

He fucking loves it.

_Don’t keep us waiting, Jules. Come for us._

Julian bites down on Mikey’s fingers when he orgasms, hard enough that he breaks the skin. Mikey rolls off of him when he’s done, and Julian blinks blearily up at the ceiling.

_Where?_ He calls out, _Ohio, still_? _With that adorable little singer of yours?_

Logan laughs, _Jealousy isn’t cute, Julian. But no. I left a while ago. I’m in New York._

Julian smiles, _Give me a day, then._

_I’ll keep our bed warm for you._


	3. Château de Saint-Cloud, France, 1575

 

Logan’s never liked the French. He’s not quite sure when the bias started, perhaps sometime during the whole mess between the Valois and Plantagenets. He finds them tedious, overly concerned with their physical appearance and the minutiae of mindless etiquette. 

 

Nevertheless, he manages to fit in well enough. He’s barely glanced at as he strides through the palace, wrapped in fabrics that look similar to the other courtiers wandering about. The colors are little out of style, but not overtly so -- he’ll have to procure a few new outfits soon. It shouldn’t be too difficult, especially if he passes the task on to Julian. He likes that sort of thing.

 

Unfortunately, Julian has a proclivity for all sorts of finery. It’s what led Logan here today, to this godforsaken shithole of a country -- Julian’s unabating desire to be pampered, to be showered in beautiful clothing and delicious food, to spend his nights tangled in silk sheets and his days in beautiful chateaus. 

 

As if Logan doesn’t spoil him enough.

 

He has to open a few doors, before he finds him. It’s not entirely surprising that he’s finally successful at the most ornate of them all, the one covered in gilded gold. Julian glances up as the door swings open, grins from his relaxed position atop a velvet chaise lounge. 

 

“Bonjour mon amoureux,” he calls out, stretching his legs in front of him, “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

 

Logan comes to a halt midway across the room, his eyes scanning over the man in front of him. Julian looks as relaxed as ever, reclined against the low couch. His outfit is positively absurd in its showiness. It’s obvious he’s been having his fun: his white ruffled shirt is unbuttoned at the throat and wrists, his gold-threaded vest tied loosely across his chest, his trousers open at the front. His feet are bare, a pair of black leather boots tossed carelessly beside him.

 

“So you’re the Prince’s whore, then, is that right?”

 

“Don’t be so crass, darling,” Julian drawls, stretching his arms over his head, “They call them  _ les mignons _ here. I’m simply the favorite.”

 

“You’re fucking him in exchange for pretty clothes and jewels.”

 

“Do you really think so little of me?” Julian pouts prettily, and Logan almost forgets his anger, “He’s gifted me a manor in Bretagne. I thought we could stay there this summer.”

 

“I despise the French.”

 

“But you don’t despise  _ me _ ,” Julian presses, finally pushing himself to his feet and drifting closer, “In fact, I think you’re quite...fond of me.”

 

His fingers brush against Logan’s neck, and Logan can’t help shift forward.

 

“I’m angry with you,” he says, even as his hand finds Julian’s hip, “Running off to your little French prince without so much as a  _ letter _ .”

 

“It was only for a little while,” Julian retorts, “Besides, you seemed rather occupied with your English stableboy.”

 

“He’s a knight, and you know it.”

 

“You think he’s prettier than me.”

 

Logan growls, low in his throat, yanks Julian closer by the delicate silk of his shirt, “Never. He’s  _ fun _ , that’s all. Much like your prince, I’m sure. But you’re mine.”

 

“And you’re mine,” Julian murmurs, close enough now that his mouth grazes Logan’s skin, “For the rest of our lives, right?”

 

His eyes flash as he raises his chin. Logan’s always a little surprised at how strongly it still affects him, how powerful of a pull Julian has on him after all these years. He wonders, sometimes, if it’ll ever go away. If the connection between them will lessen after time, or if he’ll always feel so strongly attached to the beautiful man before him.

 

He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t yearn for Julian’s lips.

 

He finally meets those lips, finally presses their mouths together after months of being separated.

 

Naturally, that’s the very moment Julian’s Prince steps into the room. 

 

Logan’s hands clench against Julian’s hips when he hears the French-accented voice behind him, holds onto the man possessively as he looks over his shoulder.

 

“You must be Sebastian,” he says, making no effort to keep the venom out of his voice, “Thank you for keeping him entertained from me, but we’ll be leaving now.”

 

The prince’s eyes flicker to Julian, and his lips press together in displeasure, “So you’re the illustrious Logan, is that right?”

 

“Now, now, boys, no fighting over me,” Julian steps past Logan, one hand curling delicately around Logan’s elbow, “As fun as that would be.”

 

He tugs at Logan’s arm, gently pulls him across the room to the doorway. Logan, for his part, never takes his eyes off Julian’s prince. He’s seen him before, of course, from a distance, but the sight of the man still makes him oddly sick. It’s not new, this jealousy. But Julian rarely returns to the same person more than once, and Logan’s more than a little uneasy knowing he’s fallen into bed with Prince Sebastian more times than either of them can count.

 

Sebastian says something else in French, and Julian turns to him with a beguiling smile. Logan can see the moment his charms hit the Prince fully, the way his whole body goes limp and a soft smile crosses his face.

 

“I had fun, mon cher,” Julian tells him leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips, “Thank you for the palace. I’ll put it to good use.”

 

He tugs on Logan’s arm once more, and the two exit the room, followed by Sebastian’s lovesick gaze.

 

“I thought you said it was just a chateau.”

 

“It is,” Julian tells him, “With thirty rooms and four gardens.”

 

He smiles brightly, drags his hand down Logan’s arm until their fingers twine together. 

 

“Well,” Logan says, slowly, “I suppose I could learn to like France.”


	4. Florence, Italy, 1500

Julian flourishes in Renaissance Italy.  

 

He flourishes just about anywhere, of course, but the unprecedented focus on the arts makes Julian’s eyes light up in a way Logan hasn’t seen for centuries. 

 

Logan enjoys it himself, of course -- he devours the new books on politics and philosophy, debates with a man named Niccolò until he’s red in the face (and, some time later, smirks with smug amusement when he discovers his words in a certain renowned political treatise). It’s about time European scholars caught up with the rest of the world’s scientific discoveries, after all. 

 

The focus on male beauty, though, is what truly brings Julian to the forefront of Florentine society. He’d asked Logan to come with him, of course, to sit and wait idly as Julian charmed the wealthiest of society. Each week, Julian comes to him with new jewels, with money, with deeds to properties and  _ titles _ . In less than a year, Julian’s accrued enough riches to tide them over for the next century.

 

But Logan’s spoiled him far too much. He wants  _ more _ .

 

The Medici boy he sets his sights on is a nobody. A second son, a young man one day bound for the church rather than politics.

 

“That’s just it, though,” Julian says, eyes twinkling, when Logan expresses his distaste, “They aren’t paying attention to him. He has access to all the family money without any of the oversight. And he’s so desperate for affection, Logan, I hardly had to  _ try _ …”

 

Logan would almost feel bad for the poor soul, if it were someone else. But it’s  _ Julian’s _ body the boy’s hands glide over,  _ Julian’s _ skin he nips and bites at.

 

And Julian does enjoy the perks so very much. He comes to Logan in new silks, draped in golden chains, looking every inch like the prince he deserved to be.

 

“He wants to have me  _ painted _ ,” Julian says, “To preserve my beauty for all of eternity.”

 

He’s grinning, as he says it, and Logan can’t help but laugh at the irony. 

 

“I was thinking Venice, next,” Julian continues, “Once the painting’s done.”

 

“You’re willing to leave your rich Medici boy?”

 

“He’s beginning to bore me,” Julian pouts, winding his arms around Logan’s neck, “All he talks of is how beautiful I am.”

 

“That must be very difficult.”

 

“He’s not like  _ you _ . He doesn’t talk about things like philosophy and politics.”

 

“You despise politics.”

 

“But I like hearing you talk of it.”

 

Logan smiles, leans in to press a lingering kiss to Julian’s lips, “Go get your painting. I certainly hope the artist does you justice, I plan on stealing it at some point.”

 

Unfortunately, Logan seems to have vastly underestimated how long it would take for the portrait to be completed. He waits for  _ weeks _ , growing increasingly restless, bored by the same tired company he’s been keeping in the city. 

 

After two months, Logan can’t stand it anymore.

 

The estate is protected, of course, but all it takes is one glare for the guards at the door to cower away from him. Julian doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest when Logan barges into the room -- the artist, however, drops his brush in fright, his eyes widening at Logan’s furious glower.

 

“That’s quite enough, Julian, don’t you think?”

 

Julian pouts prettily, “But he says my cheekbones are difficult to recreate. Apparently they capture the light.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll manage.”

 

The artist -- an innocent in all this, really, not at all Julian’s type and therefore wholly undeserving of Logan’s wrath -- shrinks as Logan’s eyes swing to him.

 

“You can finish on your own, can’t you?” He says, and the man nods.

 

“Yes, yes of course. I have enough to manage. I  _ had _ hoped to sculpt him next, I’ve been commissioned to create a statue of David…”

 

He trails off weakly at Logan’s expression, clears his throat and picks up his brush, “Of course, I’m sure I can create it from memory.”

 

“I’m sure you could. Julian. Now, please.”

 

Julian takes Logan’s outstretched hand, rising fluidly to his feet.

 

“You don’t appreciate  _ art _ , Logan,” he chastises, even as he lets Logan pull him from the room, “It takes time to create something beautiful. And he’s a perfectionist.”

 

“I won’t sit around for twelve years while you pose for a painting, Julian.”

 

“You could’ve gone somewhere else. It’s not like we’re running out of time.”

 

Julian nearly runs into him head-first when Logan abruptly halts in the hall.

 

“Is that what you want? You want to stay here and be some nobleman’s pretty little pet all alone?”

 

“...no.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Logan re-clasps his hand, continues on his way, “Who were you meant to be posing as, anyway?”

 

“Oh,” there’s a note of laughter in Julian’s voice, “Jesus.”


	5. Charleston, South Carolina, 1863

Despite popular belief, Logan doesn’t tend to get overly jealous when it comes to Julian’s trysts. Sure, he finds himself growing annoyed when Julian lingers too long away from home, when the others begin to look at him like they _own_ him, but he knows the truth — Julian is _his_ , always. He has been for thousands of years, and he will be for thousands more. Many of tried to change that, and none have. He trusts Julian, knows he’ll never stray for too long.

 

There’s just something about Cameron Pike makes Logan’s skin crawl. Maybe it’s his overconfident swagger, the way his lips twist when he smirks, the lascivious twinkle in his bright eyes every time Julian touches him. It’s infuriating, the way he touches back, like he _deserves_ Julian, like he _owns_ him.

 

But there’s something darker coloring Logan’s opinion of him. 

 

It’s the child he travels with — young, no older than seven or eight. She sports the same bright blue eyes as Cameron, is clearly related to him in some way. At first, he’d thought the girl human. It would be unheard of to turn a child; Logan hasn’t yet met a pre-pubescent vampire in all his years of traveling. 

 

Julian had told him the truth.

 

That the girl — _Lacey_ , he says, with a soft smile — was Cameron’s younger sister. That she’d been sick, so very very sick, that none of the doctors could help her. That Cameron had heard the rumors, that he’d intentionally sought out a vampire willing to turn him. That he’d then turned his sister, to _help_ her.

 

It’s sickening.

 

He understands how far people will go to protect those they love. He’s done awful things for Julian before, let Julian do awful things for him. But to turn a _child_ , to take an innocent and warp them into something twisted and evil that they can’t possibly understand? It’s _monstrous_.

 

Somehow, though, Julian doesn’t see it that way. Julian _adores_ Lacey, dotes over her and presents her with all manner of fluffy dresses and beautiful toys. She giggles over it, blushes and smiles prettily at every gift. She’s young, still, only a few years past her re-birth. But one day she’ll grow to resent what she is, Logan knows, will despise her brother for trapping her eternally in the body of a child.

 

“He wanted to _save_ her,” Julian argues, when Logan expresses his opinions, “She was _dying_.”

 

“People die. That’s how the world works.”

 

“We don’t.”

 

“We didn’t have a choice, either. But at least we weren’t _children_.”

 

Julian has no response for that. But it doesn’t stop him from seeking out the Pikes again, no matter how many beautiful cities Logan takes him too. In Paris, he buys a porcelain doll with Lacey’s curls. In Shanghai, a parasol. In Moscow, a shining gold pendant. 

 

He’ll never voice it aloud, but Logan knows _exactly_ why the Pikes make him so uncomfortable. Julian had told him, years and years ago, how he used to dream of a family. How, before he’d turned, he’d hoped to marry someone from his village. How he wanted children, how he’d hoped to be a father.

 

But then he’d been turned, and he’d abandoned those dreams.

 

Lacey Pike might be the closest Julian will ever get to reaching those dreams. 

 

Logan says he’s leaving. That there’s someone he wants to visit in New York, that he’s sick of the sticky humidity of the South. Julian shrugs, says he’ll meet him there before too long.

 

He lingers just a day.

 

He sees them walking together, at dusk — Julian by Cameron’s side, Lacey laughing from Julian’s shoulders. He watches as Julian swings her down, as he spins her in a circle as she shrieks with delight, as he pulls her into a dance. He’s laughing, too, his dark eyes shining golden as he twirls with the child.

 

Cameron watches them, an uncomfortable sort of possessiveness in his eyes.

 

Logan turns away.


	6. London, England, 1536

 

The tower reeks of piss and excrement. It’s dark — a blessing, for Logan. It’d be a shame for things to end in flames down here, trapped in a cell all alone. He can’t get comfortable, no matter how hard he tries. The stone floor is cracked and uneven, the walls covered in the frantic scratching of prisoners past.

 

There’s a lot of things he could conceivably be imprisoned for. Things he’s stolen, people he’s killed.

 

Ironic that the thing that actually brought him here was a lie.

 

He can hear the cries of other prisoners, the guards taunting them. They seem disappointed by Logan’s lack of outcry, by his bored silence each time they throw a crust of bread into his cell. Six days he’s been hidden away in this shithole, and he’s grown rather tired to it.

 

On the seventh day, a new voice mingles in with the guards. A voice he recognizes, a voice that sends a jolt of anticipation through his bloodless veins. 

 

“I’ve been asked to bring a message to the prisoner.”

 

“We’d be happy to deliver it, Lord Julian.”

 

“I’ve been asked by the _King_ ,” the voice continues, a little sharper, “To deliver this message personally.”

 

“…I apologize, sir, but we’re under strict orders to keep these prisoners isolated.”

 

Their connection is strong, after a thousand years. Logan can feel Julian’s emotions if they’re strong enough, has once or twice managed to warn him of danger from far too great a distance to be possible. Still, it surprises him that he can _see_ Julian change in his mind, _see_ Julian’s expression shift as his voice rings out, honey-thick.

 

“You _will_ let me through,” he says, his eyes flashing sparkling gold, “You _will_ allow me to speak to the prisoner. And you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

 

There’s a faint shuffling noise, footsteps nearing, a key turning in a lock.

 

Julian — his demon, his devil, his monster — looks like an absolute _angel_ when he appears in Logan’s doorway. The torchlight on the walls behind him casts a faint glow around his skin, and his eyes still flash gold.

 

“Quite the unpleasant situation you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it darling?”

 

Logan glowers, “Are you going to help me out of here or not?”

 

“They say you bedded the Queen,” Julian continues, folding his arms over his choice, “It’s treason to bed the Queen.”

 

“I didn’t _touch_ the Queen and you know it. I just enjoyed playing cards with her.”

 

“So many long nights alone with her. So many hours unsupervised…”

 

“She’s a _woman_ , Julian. You know my tastes.”

 

“All too well,” the corner of Julian’s mouth lifts, “Shame. You might’ve almost enjoyed it. She’s quite skilled.”

 

“Of _course_ you bedded her. Yet I’m the one imprisoned for it.”

 

“Sentenced to death, actually. Beheading, tomorrow morn.”

 

“Well I won’t make it past the gates,” Logan says, “I’ll burn up the moment they pull me from the tower.”

 

“They’ll know about me, too, if you burn. Some of the cardinals are already suspicious.”

 

“Thank you for your concern. It’s very touching.”

 

“You know I have a plan,” Julian says, with a wave of one hand, “You really think I want to spend the rest of eternity _alone_? I fully intend on dragging you to the end of the world with me.”

 

“You always were quite the romantic.”

 

Julian’s amused smirk falls into a soft smile, and he kneels on the stone before Logan.

 

“I _will_ get you out, my love. You do trust me, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“You just have to be patient a little longer,” Julian urges, pressing his lips to Logan’s in a soft kiss, “Tonight. I’ll handle the guards. I only need you to be ready.”

 

“I will be.”

 

“Somewhere far away after this, I think.”

 

“China,” Logan suggests, “Probably as far as we can get.”

 

“Out of England, for sure. We’ll find somewhere. I promise,” Julian stands, dusting off the dirt from his knees, “Tonight. You’ll be a free man again.”

 

“Don’t get yourself caught, do you understand? If it’s any risk to you…let me burn.”

 

“You know I’ll never do that.”

 

“Julian, _please.”_

 

_“_ I won’t let you burn,” Julian insists, “Not tomorrow. Not ever. I’m not scared of a little King. We’ve handled worse.”

 

“Julian — “

 

But Julian’s twisting away, letting the door close behind him as he exits Logan’s cell. Logan can hear him talking to the guards again, hears the clinking of the keys as he hands them over, hears the thinly veiled threat in his voice as he reminds them to speak of this to no one.

 

He’ll come, Logan knows. Will charm his way past the guards again, or slip poison into their wine goblets. He’ll come, and take Logan away. They’ll run off together as they always do, to France or Italy or Egypt or China.

 

He’ll come.

 

Because Logan’s not sure what he’ll do if he _doesn’t_.


	7. Bulgaria, 440 C.E.

_ Bulgaria, 440 C.E. _

 

He knows what he is now. He’d suspected, for so long. The cravings for blood, the painful feeling of the sunlight on his skin, the  _ strength _ he now feels. He’d denied it, for so many years, hoped in vain that the man who’d captured him had cursed him, that this didn’t mean what he feared.

 

But he hasn’t aged. It’s been fifteen years since the night Julian held that cup to his lips, and Logan feels younger than ever.

 

_ Julian _ .

 

The name still causes him pain, after all this time. The boy, the man, the vampire. Logan’s savior, who found him broken in the forest and nursed him back to health. Julian, who kept him hidden away for so long, who taught him to feed and made him feel less alone.

 

Logan can still see the look of terror on Julian’s face that night. The night the man who kept Julian prisoner found them, the night Julian pushed Logan away with frantic shouts. It had been twilight, just dark enough for Logan to safely escape.

 

He hadn’t wanted to. 

 

He’d turned back, desperate to bring Julian with him. Desperate to save him, to return the favor.

 

But the man -- a wealthy lord, Logan later learned -- had a terrifying fury in his eyes. He pulled a torch from the wall, hurled it into the stack of wooden casks that lined the room.

 

The whole thing erupted into flames. 

 

Logan remembers it, even now. The burn against his skin, the blinding light of the flames, the terrifying sound of Julian’s screams. 

 

He regrets running that day. Regrets turning away, leaving Julian behind. He knows, realistically, there’s nothing he could’ve done. They didn’t even know each other that well - the language barrier meant their communication was limited to gestures and firmly repeated words.

 

Still, he regrets it.

 

He’s made a new life for himself, here. He knows he won’t be able to stay in any one place for too long, not before people start to get suspicious. But he’s comfortable enough, and he manages to feed without drawing attention to himself.

 

It’s an art, really. Finding someone whose disappearance will go unnoticed. Travellers, usually, or the occasional peasant. Just one can keep him sated for weeks, now that he’s trained himself to deal with the hunger.

 

He slips out of his house -- shared with a half-dozen others -- in the dead of night, covers his face with a dark cloak and seeks out his target.

 

It isn’t always easy.

 

It seems he’s lucked out tonight.

 

There’s a man strolling through the streets, alone. He’s dressed far too nicely to be from the village, and his boots shine in the moonlight. Logan can’t quite make out his face just yet, and he falls into the shadows as he follows. The man doesn’t seem to be moving with much purpose, his feet slow as they graze over the dirt path. As Logan watches, he veers sharply to one side, moving straight towards a nearby treeline.

 

He’s making it so easy.

 

Logan waits a few minutes before he follows. He knows these woods well. His meal won’t be able to escape him, even with the head start. He glances around, but the town is silent. Nobody will be around to witness this.

 

He follows the path into the woods. The man had walked a straight line, and Logan’s feet are silent as he makes his way through the fallen leaves. He moves swiftly. With his speed, he should catch up to his prey in no time.

 

Except he doesn’t.

 

There’s a clearing, not too far in, and Logan frowns when he reaches it with no trace of the man he’d been following. He’d watched for evidence the man had gone a different way, but there’d been no trace. Where had he turned?

 

Before Logan can think too long about it, there’s a sudden crunch of leaves behind him. Something grips the back of his cloak, and he’s flung harshly against a nearby tree, stunned as someone presses him backwards against the bark.

 

“Planning to kill me, darling? That’s a strange way to say thank you.”

 

The words are spoken in the dialect of the village, accented a little, and so strangely familiar. 

 

The hood of Logan’s cloak is ripped away, and if he had breath it would catch.

 

“ _ Julian. _ ”

 

The man’s lips curve into a smile, and the fist against Logan’s chest loosens. Julian licks at his lips, and his eyes sparkle.

  
_ “ _ Miss me ?”

 

"You died."

 

"Death never did take on me, did it?"

 

Logan's stunned, and he knows his mouth must be hanging open. He can't believe Julian's here, that he'd somehow survived the fire that night. That he's been alive this whole time. That he's found Logan.

 

"You wanted me to follow you."

 

"Astute observation."

 

"You looked for me, didn't you?"

 

Julian's face softens, and he releases his grip on Logan's coat, "Of course I did."

 

"Why?"

 

"...you're all I know."


End file.
